Robert Burns Poetry

Robert Burns – Lines Written On A Banknote Poem Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf! Fell source o’ a’ my woe and grief! For lack o’ thee I’ve lost my lass! For lack o’ thee I scrimp my glass! I see the children of affliction Unaided, through thy curst restriction: I’ve seen the oppressor’s […]

On Politics Poem Robert Burns In Politics if thou would’st mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind,—be deaf and blind, Let great folk hear and see.

O For Ane An’ Twenty, Tam Poem Robert Burns Chorus.—An’ O for ane an’ twenty, Tam! And hey, sweet ane an’ twenty, Tam! I’ll learn my kin a rattlin’ sang, An’ I saw ane an’ twenty, Tam. They snool me sair, and haud me down, An’ gar me look like bluntie, Tam; But three short […]

The True Loyal Natives Robert Burns Poetry Ye true Loyal Natives attend to my song In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; From Envy and Hatred your corps is exempt, But where is your shield from the darts of Contempt!

The Humble Petition Of Bruar Water Robert Burns Poetry To the noble Duke of Athole. My lord, I know your noble ear Woe ne’er assails in vain; Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear Your humble slave complain, How saucy Phoebus’ scorching beams, In flaming summer-pride, Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, And drink my crystal tide.^1 […]

Address To The Shade Of Thomson Poem On Crowning His Bust at Ednam, Roxburghshire, with a Wreath of Bays. While virgin Spring by Eden’s flood, Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, Or tunes Eolian strains between. While Summer, with a matron grace, Retreats to Dryburgh’s cooling shade, Yet oft, […]

Robin Shure In Hairst Poetry Chorus.—Robin shure in hairst, I shure wi’ him. Fient a heuk had I, Yet I stack by him. I gaed up to Dunse, To warp a wab o’ plaiden, At his daddie’s yett, Wha met me but Robin: Robin shure, &c. Was na Robin bauld, Tho’ I was a cotter, […]

O Let Me In Thes Ae Night Poem Robert Burns O Lassie, are ye sleepin yet, Or are ye waukin, I wad wit? For Love has bound me hand an’ fit, And I would fain be in, jo. Chorus—O let me in this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night; O let me in this […]

On Elphinstone’s Translation Of Martial’s Epigrams Poem Robert Burns O Thou whom Poetry abhors, Whom Prose has turned out of doors, Heard’st thou yon groan?—proceed no further, ‘Twas laurel’d Martial calling murther.

Thanksgiving For A National Victory Poem Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks? To murder men and give God thanks! Desist, for shame!—proceed no further; God won’t accept your thanks for Murther!